by Alice Ross
‘I’m sorry to bother you again, Mrs Collins,’ began Mrs Hardman, the school Head, two days later. ‘But I wondered if you’d managed to have a word with Valentina about her inappropriate outfits yet.’
On the other end of the phone, Chrissie sighed. She hadn’t spoken to Valentina about her “inappropriate outfits” yet, because she was too busy trying to maintain a) calm in the household, and b) a respectable distance been her guest and the testosterone-fuelled Lucas. In the three nights since the séance he had been to the house every evening, and Valentina, despite the freezing temperatures, had been sporting fewer and fewer clothes. Employing every effort known to man to ensure the pair were never alone, Chrissie was stressed and shattered.
‘If nothing else, I’m worried she’ll catch her death of cold,’ Mrs Hardman went on. ‘I shiver just looking at her.’
‘Me too,’ puffed Chrissie. ‘I have offered to loan her sweaters and jackets, but she’s not remotely interested. I don’t know what else I can do.’
‘Well, we can only keep trying. I must say, between you and me, I’m a little in awe of her hardiness. Particularly as I believe the temperature in Rio rarely dips below twenty degrees.’
At the mention of Rio, Chrissie seized the opportunity to raise a concern of her own. ‘Um, while you’re on the phone, Mrs Hardman, I might as well tell you that I’m having serious reservations about Jess going to Rio. Which, given the circumstances, I’m sure you can understand.’
Evidently she couldn’t.
Down the phone whooshed a horrified gasp.
‘But that would upset the whole programme. Can I suggest you give the matter a little more consideration. I know Valentina hasn’t got off to a particularly good start here. And I fully understand your concerns, but why don’t you wait until the end of the three weeks before making your decision?’
‘Okay,’ puffed Chrissie, too tired to argue her point, but fully convinced that her doubts would only have multiplied by the end of Valentina’s stay.
‘So, how have things been here?’ Paul asked a few days later. After their glorious wedding – all the details of which had been shared via Skype the same day, along with a bazillion photos – he and Meg had returned from the Caribbean that morning, looking incredibly bronzed, far too healthy, and aglow with happiness. They’d collected the kids from school that afternoon and ferried them back to Lovelace Lane to shower them with presents. While Jess and Harry ooh-ed and aah-ed over their gifts with Meg in the kitchen, Paul ushered Chrissie into the living room for a quiet word.
‘Everything been okay?’
‘Yes. Fine,’ she breezed, opting to spare him the gorier details and, therefore, any guilt. ‘Nothing I couldn’t handle.’
‘There rarely is,’ he chuckled. ‘Anyway, I wanted to let you know that Meg and I have decided to have a party the weekend after next - to celebrate the wedding.’
‘Ooh, that sounds like fun,’ said Chrissie, trying and failing to recall the last time she’d been to a party, while simultaneously wondering if she had anything to wear.
‘Let’s hope so. But before that, we wondered if you’d mind if we took the kids – and Valentina - away next weekend. To make up for them missing the wedding.’
Chrissie beamed at him. ‘Of course I wouldn’t mind. That’s a lovely idea. Where were you thinking of?’
‘York. There should be something to keep them all amused there.’
‘Fantastic. They’ll love it.’
‘Fingers crossed. Plus, it’ll give you a break. Even though you’ll probably spend it fixing the roof or something.’
‘No rest for the wicked,’ quipped Chrissie. ‘Time is money in the property game. Although I do draw the line at fixing the roof.’
Paul shook his head. ‘You work too hard. You should treat yourself more often. Or, even better, find someone else to treat you. Someone to take you out for a nice romantic dinner or something.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ tutted Chrissie, experiencing a momentary pang of self-pity. ‘You know I’d much rather fit a U-bend.’
After refusing to let Valentina and Lucas out of her sight for a second over the remainder of the week, it was with great relish that Chrissie waved off her house guest, along with Harry and Jess, on Saturday morning when Paul picked them up. Heaven only knew how the York weekend would go, but she didn’t have time to worry about it. While she’d really like to crawl under her duvet and sleep for thirty-six hours, she couldn’t. She still had work to do before the trades came the following week, meaning the duvet would have to wait.
Picking up her hammer and starting the day’s bashing of the walls at the rear of the house, Paul’s remark about her working too hard popped into her head. Perhaps she did. And she certainly couldn’t remember the last time she’d treated herself to anything more than a bottle of bubble bath. As for finding someone else to treat her, well, that seemed as likely as Gerry’s soufflé rising. Admittedly, though, it would’ve made a nice change looking forward to a romantic dinner this evening, wearing something other than dirty overalls, feeling sexy and feminine. But as she couldn’t remember ever feeling either of those things, perhaps it was just as well she’d be making do with the telly and a microwave lasagne.
Wheeling what felt like the seventieth load of rubble out to the skip later, Chrissie jumped as someone called, ‘Morning’.
It was Olly. In his usual garb of duffel coat, hat and scarf. She hadn’t seen him since the séance. Thankfully. After holding his hand for the entire meeting, she’d imagined - on more occasions than she’d care to admit over the intervening week – both his hands doing all kinds of unmentionable things to her. Recalling just a few of those things now made her cheeks grow warm and her vocal chords tighten.
‘Morning,’ she subsequently squeaked.
‘You look busy,’ he remarked, striding over to her.
‘Yes. Very busy,’ she blustered, tucking several wayward strands of hair under her hard hat, while wishing he wasn’t standing so close she could smell his woody aftershave.
‘Is Harry around? I thought he might like to come to the Discovery Museum with me.’
‘Oh,’ gasped Chrissie, slightly wrong-footed. ‘That’s really kind but his dad’s taken him to York for the weekend. Taken all three teenagers actually.’
Behind his glasses, Olly’s brows lifted. ‘So you… you have the weekend to yourself?’
‘I do,’ confirmed Chrissie. ‘Which means I can knock out walls to my heart’s content. And this evening I’m going to crash out in front of the TV with a microwave lasagne, and savour every minute of the peace and quiet.’
‘Oh. Right. Well, I, er, I suppose that’ll make a nice change for you.’
‘A glorious change,’ said Chrissie, doing her best to keep her tone upbeat so he didn’t think her a total loser. ‘But thank you again for thinking of Harry. It really was very kind.’
‘No problem. Perhaps I can take him another day,’ he said, before flashing her a fleeting smile, turning on his heel and loping off down the drive.
Never, in all her life, had Chrissie been more pleased to step into a piping hot bubble bath than she was that evening. It was eight o’clock and already dark outside. Removing the remaining walls had taken longer than she’d envisaged, but she’d kept going until they were all out. Immersed in the bubbles, heat seeping into her weary bones, she concluded that it was just as well she didn’t have a date that evening. She couldn’t have summoned the energy for flirty banter. And as for making herself presentable, it was all she could do to pull on her pyjamas, shove her feet into fluffy slippers, and tie the belt on her pink dressing gown.
Duly attired twenty minutes later, she headed down to the kitchen in a cloud of sweet-smelling magnolia. The scent put her in mind of Gwen’s theory about Maisie. Well, if the ghost of the old woman was floating about Yew Tree House tonight, she’d be witnessing a perfect example of a romance-free singleton’s sad existence.
Having pierced the cellopha
ne lid of her pasta dish with slightly more zeal than necessary, Chrissie had just popped it into the microwave and switched on the appliance, when the kitchen light flickered.
Then flickered again.
Before going off completely.
Followed by the light in the hall.
And the one in the living room.
And the microwave.
Crap!
Had she damaged a wire or something when she’d been working? She’d better check the fuse box. Not that there was really much point. If she had damaged something, she wouldn’t be able to fix it. She could turn her hand to most things, but she always left electrics to the experts, who she wouldn’t dream of bothering at this time on a Saturday night. Not least because all the electricians of her acquaintance would be out having a good time. Unlike her, whose pathetic weekend highlight of microwave lasagne had just been scratched from her pitiful agenda.
Not having the first clue where her torch might be, as her eyes gradually adjusted to the dim light, Chrissie tentatively shuffled towards the hall, trying not to trip over all the building materials scattered about the floor. Congratulating herself on reaching the front door with all limbs still intact, she eased it open and peeped outside. To discover the whole of Lovelace Lane in darkness. Panic rising as it occurred to her that perhaps she’d ruptured the power supply to the entire street, or – worse still – the entire county, she promptly shut the door and began picking her way back through to the kitchen. She’d grab a couple of bananas from the fruit bowl and eat them in bed, she decided. With nothing else to do, she might as well have an early night.
She’d almost reached her destination when someone rapped on the front door. Convinced it would be Gwen, Chrissie carefully retraced her steps, surprised to discover Olly outside, in his duffel coat, clasping a torch, the beam of which fell across her Marge Simpson slippers.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Hi,’ she replied. Then, suddenly aware she was swathed in a dressing gown that had seen better days, her cheeks turned pink.
Seeming to sense her embarrassment, Olly demonstrated some of his own. ‘I, er, just wondered if you were okay.’
‘Yes. Fine, thank you. I’ve just had a bath.’
He nodded, looking at her a little strangely. ‘You smell… nice.’
‘Thanks,’ she murmured, now flushing the exact shade of fuchsia as her robe.
‘I, um, heard you working when I took out the rubbish a short while ago, so I didn’t know if you’d have had time to microwave your meal before the power went down. If not, I’ve brought some of my spicy meatballs.’ He held up a thermal bag in his non-torch-bearing hand. ‘But it’s no problem if you’ve already eaten.’
As Chrissie’s eyes flitted from him to the bag, then back to him, surprise and gratitude surged through her. ‘I haven’t eaten. And I’m starving. So, yes. I’d love some spicy meatballs. And the fact that you’ve bothered to bring them round, is very possibly the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.’
He shrugged, looking even more embarrassed. ‘Comes from my survival training. Always making sure the team are well-looked-after.’
Chrissie smiled, thinking how nice it must be to be part of Olly’s team. Not that she’d ever know. She hadn’t been able to survive a night in a tent in Scotland, never mind months in a tropical jungle.
‘I’ve brought candles and a spare torch, too,’ he added. ‘Just in case you’d been meaning to buy one but hadn’t got around to it yet.’
Chrissie giggled, the in-joke sweeping aside any awkwardness. ‘Actually, unlike the first-aid kit, I do have a torch somewhere. I just have no idea where that somewhere is.’
She beamed at him. And he beamed back. And for a few seconds, in the yellow torchlight, they continued beaming at one another. The sound of a car horn blasting in the distance broke the moment.
‘Would you… like to come in?’ she blurted, suddenly aware of how cold it was, and of how much she didn’t want him to leave. ‘Once again I can’t offer much in the way of hospitality, but there are a couple of bottles of wine in the now-non-functioning fridge.’
‘Wow. You’re really selling it,’ quipped Olly. ‘But yes, I’d love to come in. Thank you.’
Courtesy of Olly’s torch, the journey back to the kitchen was much quicker – and much less hazardous – than Chrissie’s outbound trip.
While he lit his candles – dotting them around the room - Chrissie bustled about pulling out glasses, plates, cutlery and, in the absence of any napkins, a roll of kitchen paper.
‘This really is very kind,’ she reiterated. ‘I was going to grab a couple of bananas and eat them in bed.’
At the look Olly slanted her following that admission, she spun round, snatched up the kitchen paper, and began manically ripping off sheets, desperately wishing she could retract that bit about going to bed.
Thankfully, Olly, having completed his candle-lighting duties, and now at her side unzipping the thermal bag, moved the conversation on. ‘So, do you think Maisie’s ghost is responsible for your missing torch?’
Chrissie laughed, turning back to him and trying not to notice how handsome he looked in the flickering light. ‘I’m relying on you, as a scientist, to put an end to that nonsense and to tell Gwen that ghosts cannot possibly exist.’
No sooner had the words drifted from her mouth than an almighty crash sounded from upstairs.
In a flash, she dropped the kitchen paper and launched herself into Olly’s arms.
‘What was that?’
‘I don’t know. Want me to go and look?’
Chrissie couldn’t reply, her brain frantically trying to compute the fact that his arms were around her; that his bespectacled brown eyes were burning into hers; and that his lips were mere centimetres away. Lips she had an overwhelming compulsion to kiss.
But she couldn’t. Olly was, she reminded herself, only being kind because he wanted use of her garden. And, more importantly, he was in a relationship.
Dragging her gaze away, she wriggled out of his embrace.
‘Sorry. I don’t know what came over me there,’ she said. To the table. ‘I’m not usually such a wuss. I think I’m a bit on edge after a stressful few days with the kids.’
Too mortified to look at him, she began fiddling with the belt of her dressing gown, aware of his eyes on her, and wishing he’d say something.
He didn’t.
Not for several excruciatingly long seconds.
After which he gave a little cough, reached for the torch, and announced, ‘I’ll go and check upstairs.’
Flicking him a quick glance, Chrissie smiled her thanks, grateful for the couple of minutes alone his absence awarded her. Honestly. She really had to get a grip. Jumping on him like that. He must think she was crackers. Or desperate. Or dying to snog him. Which she wasn’t. Not at all.
‘The ladder had fallen down,’ he informed her on his return.
Chrissie tutted. ‘I mustn’t have propped it up properly.’
‘No,’ he muttered, regarding her strangely again.
Oh lord. What was going on? she wondered, hovering by the bench on jelly-like legs. This wouldn’t do at all. The poor guy was only being kind, and there she was reading all sorts of ridiculous meanings into everything he said or did. Sucking in a breath, she plumped down on the nearest chair at the table, reached for the wine, and sloshed a large amount into both glasses.
She then swiped up hers, knocked back a mouthful, and said, ‘So, tell me about Diana. How long has she been in Bali?’
‘Three months.'
Chrissie quirked a curious brow. ‘So, if she’s been away three months, and you’ve been away six, when did you last see each other?’
‘Not since November, when we met up in London.’
‘Goodness. That’s a long time. It must be really difficult trying to keep a relationship going when you’re living so far apart.’
Olly shrugged. Then, pinning on a smile, ‘We’d better eat thes
e meatballs before they go cold.’
Olly stayed for over two hours. During which he deftly swerved Chrissie’s efforts to find out more about his partner, steering the conversation onto all kinds of other things and regaling her with more hilarious stories about his trips to countries she’d scarcely heard of, let alone could imagine visiting.
She really did enjoy his company, she reflected, as she went about her bedtime preparations. About to climb into bed, she noticed another after-dinner mint wrapper on the duvet. But she couldn’t be bothered to fathom where it had come from. Because the moment her head hit the pillow, she tumbled into a much-needed sleep.
Chapter Eight
Paul and the kids arrived back late Sunday afternoon. Paul’s tan, Chrissie immediately noticed, having paled significantly in the hours since they’d set off.
‘Did you have a nice time?’ she ventured at the front door, the kids having bowled past her, muttering cursory greetings.
He pulled a face. ‘Our two have been great. But Valentina… she’s never been off her phone. To Lucas up the street.’
Chrissie heaved an almighty sigh. ‘Ugh! I hope they haven’t been scheming up ways to meet. I dread to think what they’ll get up to if they’re ever alone.’
‘Don’t even go there,’ chuntered Paul, shaking his head. ‘But as if that wasn’t bad enough, we caught her smoking outside the hotel, while fluttering her eyelashes at one of the waiters. And when I pointed out that that really wasn’t the kind of behaviour we’d expect from our guest, she looked at me like I was demented and informed me it was “no big deal”.’
‘How dare she!’ exclaimed Chrissie, voice reverberating with anger. ‘She is a complete and utter spoiled brat. And there is no way on this planet Jess is going to Rio to stay with her and her father. And talking of her father, I think it’s time someone told him just what a shabby job he’s doing in raising his child.’
Then, without waiting for Paul to reply, she stomped through to the kitchen, dropped onto a chair, flicked on her laptop, and began to type…